


Homme Fatale

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Far Cry, Far Cry 3
Genre: Alcohol, Crime Fighting, Crime and criminals, Drug Addiction, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Flirting, Forced Prostitution, Gambling, Human Trafficking, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Games, Modern Piracy, Organized Crime, Pirates, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Tension, Slave Trade, Slow Burn Tension, Slurs, Underage Prostitution, Undercover Missions, Verbal Games, double identity, noir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 07:41:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15814470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: Willis Huntley's been infamously undercover for the CIA on Rook Island for a long, long time now, collecting intel, extracting secrets, observing and patiently laying in wait for the right opportunity to strike out - during that time, he meets the very man running the whole damn shit-show and making his job difficult for him and Uncle Sam, in the flesh. His main target of action in this part of the Pacific East. They both decide having a couple of smokes and drinks together never killed nobody.





	Homme Fatale

_**homme fatal** -_ 1\. French for "deadly man" - The male equivalent of a _femme fatale._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Hoyt comes out sometimes.  
From his Southern Island fortress.  
He comes out like some kind of nocturnal animal.  
A snake, a viper or a venomous, rare spider that kills with one bite.  
Seldom ever seen, but often anticipated by basically everyone around here.  
It's almost like a local event - like a fiesta or a national holiday of sorts - the 4th of July.  
Everyone suddenly becomes quiet, stiff, tense, on edge - not that they're usually very much different.  
You can tell that fear lingers in this place, like a perpetual, invisible cloud of sorts.  
Women hide all their young children - men hide their daughters and sisters.  
Lest they all become the next target of a slaver's keen marketing eye.  
Everyone pretends to go about their daily business and act natural.  
But, everyone's merely pretending, shivering in their seats.  
Huntley can tell when people are shitting their pants.  
He has an ingrained, well-trained knack for it.  
It smells bad, looks bad and covers-up bad.

 

 

 

He was in Iraq, Iran, Somalia - he's seen it all and smelled it all - shit in all it's worldwide diversity.

 

 

 

But, Hoyt Volker's not phased - he walks into the run-down, admittedly extremely greasy-looking, dimly lit shanty bar like someone who owns the place - hell, he probably does - smile wide, shark-like, comprised of all teeth and no joy, waggling his long feet and leisurely sauntering about like he's almost flattered and pleased by everyone's sudden anxiety at the sight of him - like he gets off on it - and considering his track record, again, he probably does too. South African. Grew up under the Apartheid. A child of a troubled mixed marriage in 70's and 80's - difficult, touchy, controversial subject no doubt. Nonexistent in any documents or folders in his supposed home-country, though. Must've bought off the courts and officials to erase everything they had on him - easy to achieve in a corrupted system with corrupted bureaucracy. Vague ties to Colombia - of course. How cliched. A drug-trafficker from Colombia. What's next? An Italian called Mario? Offspring of a diamond magnate who died under mysterious circumstances decades earlier - presumably, the prodigal son here had a hand in it because they just got along that splendidly. Same way he had in the death of his previous superior. Had dealings back in Africa, off the coast of Mozambique, Zimbabwe, Botswana, Rhodesia, back in the days, while it still existed, briefly in the Americas, Australia, and now he was here. In this bar. Out of all the bars in all the world. He walked into the one Willis was waiting for him at. Go figure. Almost like the fact that there was a makeshift poker table set up for the idle, tired drunks to play at attracted him here every once in a while to show off his skills. He was vain like that.

 

 

 

Not that anyone had the actual bloody _cojones_ to play with Hoyt - and for good reason.  
If you win, you've the chance of legitimately insulting the supposed best poker player around.  
And if you loose - well - Volker spread the reputation of fancying the removal of any fingers you could boast having.  
Man was kind of a sick sadist like that - then again, Willis was a self-aware cocksure bastard, so they were even in a sense.

 

 

 

_-"How about a round? Friendly, of course."-_

 

 

 

Huntley asked right off the bat, easily.  
Not hesitating one bit when Volker approached the table.  
Looking around for anyone willing to take a shot at a game with him.  
Almost as if expecting nobody to step forward - word on the street, he did this whenever he had free time.  
It was almost like his own covert, extremely roundabout and eccentric way of establishing dominance.  
If nobody could beat him at mere poker, how did they expect to beat him anywhere else?  
They certainly shouldn't have hoped at driving him off the Archipelago.  
Not with native Rakyat support, rusted weapons and pitchforks.  
That tribal witch in the jungle could eat her heart out!

 

 

 

_-"Hmm, sure, why not. I see you're all set up, so who am I to say no to someone with a competitive spirit."-_

 

 

 

Volker answered with a sly, reptilian grin, obviously not expecting any actual, willing, eager volunteers, but not scoffing at his attempts at banter and small-talk either, pleased with him, clearly, out of this sorry, scared bunch trying to look as relaxed as humanly possible but instead coming off like they just witnessed a nuclear explosion walking on two feet - they didn't call Hoyt Armageddon for nothing with the naturally unnerving, uncomfortable, weird effect he had whenever he showed up anywhere like this, announced or unannounced - this was the man's weakness, apparently - poker - something he seldom said no to when given the rare moment of respite - that and good import Cuban tobacco - luckily for him, Willis came prepared with both after some extensive research on his target's day-to-day habits. Uncle Sam provides the perfect baits for the perfect situations. God bless. Instead, he had Hoyt and his golden Tony Montana-era, 80's Scarface neck chain to contend with.

 

 

 

_-"Indeed."-_

 

 

 

Huntley replied with a chuckle, mixing up the cards on the round, wooden table that squeaked too much and had dried-up beer stains on the surface, attempting to seem at ease with himself, awaiting Hoyt to question on him on where he was from, who he was and what he was doing here - because, that's what they always ask. Without fault. Experience taught him that. Volker wasn't stupid. Far from it. He kept records, tabs and notes on everyone here and any coming and going to and from the island didn't happen without him first being informed or giving the green-light for cruisers, helicopters, private planes, jets and yachts to enter and exit the premises, otherwise, there's a likely treat they'd be singed and captured by Montenegro's army of pirates or torpedoed to oblivion. Sam Becker, his associate from America called this a Gestapo regime and he was partially right. This was like Castro's Cuba in the 60's - only even nastier and with less commies. Thank fuck for that at least. He hated this red bastards.

 

 

 

 

_-"I don't recognize your face. By the looks of you, you're not from around here. American?"-_

 

 

 

Ah, and there it was - the big question.  
Willis could only smile and shrug his shoulders.  
His main strategy was to hide in plain sight.  
Cover himself by putting himself out there.  
Make his presence and identity known.  
Very obviously, without denying it.  
Without getting defensive or flat-out lying.  
He was American and there as no use hiding that.  
He was here visiting and there was no use hiding that either.  
Both were partially true - so, he was telling the truth while as also covering up facts.  
One way or another, over-explaining one's motivations tended to have the effect of backfiring in one's face.

 

 

So, whatever Hoyt was about to ask him - Willis would confirm with smooth graces, he thought.

 

 

 

_-"No shit - what gave me away?"-_

 

 

Huntley chuckled, cracking a joke out of the situation and playing the card of harmless sarcasm for introductions, making it fairly obvious where he was from - the accent, the behavior, the looks, the clothes, the manners - causing Hoyt's lips to crack up in sudden laughter as well, a gluttoral, rough-sounding thing when his dark brows shut up in amusement - but humor - get them to be entertained by you and you can do pretty much anything from there on out. Throughout history, court-jesters were always the greatest and most prominent spies precisely because nobody suspected them on accounts of not taking them all that seriously and not seeing them as a treat because they were, well, funny. Not much has changed since. That's how he's won over his wife too. That's exactly how he's lost her as well. During their divorce crisis, she's called him a clown. That's exactly what she's affectionately, endearingly called him when they were still dating. Irony.

 

 

_-"On business?"-_

 

 

Hoyt asked, curiously, eyes gleaming up at him as he checked his deck, not giving anything away.

 

 

_-"Pleasure."-_

 

 

Willis shot back instantly - again, not lying one bit - bringing down this fucker would indeed be a pleasure.

 

 

_-"Ah, yes. Feel free to any one of the lovely ladies we have here. They're, as they say, on the house, ja?"-_

 

 

Hoyt instantaneously beamed up, chuckling, taking him the wrong way and assuming he was here exclusively to get laid, signalling for one of the many bar women and waitresses to approach him with a single movement of his index finger - that, and the two armed guards he had stationed at the front entrance had the sorry pair of broads compelled to approached them and try and appeal to Huntley in whatever way they could lest they provoke big daddy's wrath over here - my, my, what a depressive site - the women seemed exhausted, sweaty, malnourished, sickly, dressed in mismatched rags a few sizes too small, probably pushing their forties at this point and just entirely drained by the looks of it - a couple of Filipinas - but even so, they made themselves useful, one of them trying to sit on his lap and the other looking a little lost and uncomfortable with empty metal tray for drinks - a case of sex tourism at it's peak - Hoyt had this patch of land in the palm of his hand and with it everyone in it - mind, body and soul - emphasis on the body.

 

 

_-"This time around, I'm more inclined to look for a man."-_

 

 

Huntley corrected, flipping his cards and calling, chips on either side of his arms leaning on the table, attempting to spare the women a lot of discomfort in the process by playing the role of someone who played for the other team, if he had to be politically correct about it- he was no Prince Gallant, that's for sure, but at least he was trying - and again, not lying in the least bit - except with the fact that the man he was looking for he's already found, sitting with him face to face for the first time after ages spent merely observing and biding his time. And as for the man-loving part - he was already wearing a matched white suit, gold-trimmed ray-bans and a necklace - if he looked the part of some globe-trotting bear who was out and about for the hunt - that part too, was partially on purpose. The agency encouraged agents in training to be open to sexual fluidity. At least, when the situation called for it. In your private time, you could be the most dyed-in-the-bone, conservative, woman-loving, queer-hating, prejudiced, hypocritical, two-faced macho, but out here?

 

 

 

You had to understand, that sometimes, to survive, you had to be flexible - and you had to adapt.  
So, Willis was adapting - certain that a man like Hoyt's tried everything and anything by now.  
And out here, sex was like currency - you give a little of yourself - you might just buy your life.  
Or information - that's exactly why Willis had the tendency of paying local prostitutes of all genders to share what they know.  
What they heard their recent customers whisper about, what they shared during pillow-talk, during the act itself.  
After a good round of fucking, people tend to get vulnerable enough to say things they wouldn't say otherwise.  
And in Hoyt Volker's particular profession anyhow - experimentation was just another way of negotiation and communication.

 

 

That one rhymed.

 

 

_-"Oh, is that so? I don't judge. In my line of work, you learn that people have distinctive tastes. Young. Old. Men. Women. Both. All. Black. White. Goats and sheep. My job is to see that their wants are sated for the right price. So, you see - not all of us out here are backwards savages, contrary to popular belief. Some of us are legitimate businessmen trying to make a buck. You might even consider me someone who brings people together."-_

 

 

So, a pimp with delusions of grandeur, then - Willis internally concluded.  
A whore-mongerer who thought he was the first cousin of Tinder.  
Interesting, how Hoyt too, in a sense hid in plain sight.  
Outright confessing to being a slave-trafficker.  
Boldly at that despite Interpol having a notice out for him.  
Was this man informed he was wanted internationally - probably was.  
The sharp, heated gaze he gave him dangerous, vivid, painfully self-aware.  
Quite jovial and happy, almost - like this was a dream job of his he was describing.  
Willis could imagine a child wanting to be a cop, an astronaut, a celebrity or a painter, but -

 

 

This?

 

 

He knew some boys and girls got off of on shooting plastic guns and pretending to be Pablo Escobar 'cos they watched movies they shouldn't have when dad forgot to log out of his Netflix account that one time, but damn. Hoyt's educational years must've been weird as all hell, which was no surprise considering the background check the agency dug up on him. It's some fucked up shit they found. And Willis' has seen fucked up plenty of times before. So that's saying something.

 

 

_-"I was thinking of someone dark. Tan. Green eyes. Not tight on age."-_

 

 

Huntley spoke up when the women caught wind of being subtly dismissed of their services for the night and brought both of them a glass of cooled scotch before leaving them be, retreating back into some hidden, dark corner of the smoky bar where nobody could disturb or harass them and where they'd be least likely to catch anyone's unwanted attention, not blaming them in the least bit, knowing how rampant rape and abuse tended to run around here - must be the boss' regular favourite order by default - scotch - attempting to outright flirt with Hoyt by describing his supposed preference as someone vaguely, yet eerily reminding of him - Huntley didn't know if women, in their right mind and not under any sort of coercion, pressuring, bribe, blackmail, substances or treat would consider Hoyt an attractive man just for the sake of it - someone they'd willingly get entangled with under more or less normal circumstances that didn't involve a gun to your head - maybe - perhaps - he couldn't tell except that he knew for a fact that power had an almost universal appeal in any society and it drew people to one spot like a magnet, whether it was right or wrong - an isolated jungle mini narco-dictatorship was no exception.

 

 

Hoyt was appealing in term of being on the top of the food chain - primal instinct - basic psychology.

 

 

_-"I'm certain we could find someone for you. How do you feel about Malayans?"-_

 

 

 

Hoyt flipped over his deck of cards and placed his hand over Willis', reaching over.  
Man's palm was sweaty and uncomfortably heated, but Huntley took this as a sign that Hoyt was playing coy.  
Of course he knew exactly who Huntley meant when he mentioned the deep tan and peculiar green eyes.  
Who else, of any notability could boast those, except, ironically, Hoyt's hound on a leash?  
And Willis Huntley wasn't about to haggle Hoyt for a night with Vaas Montenegro.  
In his head, that sounded equally hilarious, horrendous and off-putting all at once.  
Comforting himself with the thought that Citra Talugmai had the same eyes and complexion.  
But that she'd probably cut up any man that tried to approach her - and good for her, to be honest.  
Leaving Willis nearly chuckling, when in all legitimacy, a young man in his early twenties approached them.  
Just as dark and green-gazed as described, taking the cue and sitting down between the men, offering to light Huntley's cigar.  
He looked like he was native and desperate enough to do anything that was necessary to assure his next meal ticket on the table.  
Making him easily exploitable - and if anything ever put off a hard-on, this was it - outside of Willis' ex-wife's nasty temper, of course.

 

 

 

Man, this night was like a bad trip - his poker face was probably faltering.

 

 

 

_-"I hope you enjoy your visit here and that everything's to your liking now that you're in good company. You'll find that this place is very, very, very hard to leave once you arrive, eh? It's like the slogan says; Come for a while, stay forever. Volker tours. Addictive."-_

 

 

Hoyt threw a smile between and Willis, and his, well, date.  
Finding time to promote his own company in the meantime - typical.  
Volker tours was a known scammer company and a schemey money-laundering facade on the down-low.  
Meant to lure in tourists to the island, only to have them captured, kidnapped and kept for ransom afterwards.  
Using the very information they gave the firm to contact family members, loved ones and relatives.  
And then extort money out of them - in a sense, it's quite genius - or ingenious.  
Even more so when Volker's very sleazy utterance of the word addictive -  
Was followed up by him attempting to slide him a a small bag of coke.  
So, not only marketing his own company, but his product as well.  
All while pimping out some frightened kid like a sack of meat.

 

 

Jesus Christ with this guy.

 

 

 

_-"No, thanks - I have my own."-_

 

 

 

He shot back, reaching into his pocket and briefly presenting Hoyt with his own plastic container from under the table, playing just as coy as Volker did earlier - courtesy of, once again, Uncle Sam himself - the agency had the habit of providing him with any requisites and goods necessary to infiltrate hostile territory in order to fit in and seem less suspicious - if that meant cocaine - it meant cocaine - and yes, specifically Hoyt's very own cocaine picked off of Hoyt's very own confiscated reservoir's discovered and captured during a raid somewhere in a busted warehouse outside of Bangkok to avoid even further suspicions just in case someone gets extra nosy and asks to check, and since half of this island was on some sort of yayo or other at this point, it was only natural that he would stick out like a sore thumb asking to get hammered down, if he possessed neither drugs on his person - if he refused to fuck anyone - if he didn't gamble - smoke - or indulge in any of the everyday basics out here, people would get eerily suspicious of his stoic-like, healthy life choices and start asking around why he's really here. I mean - people don't come out here to do Yoga, keep their blood pressure in check, eat veggies and maintain a balanced corn diet, that's for sure. They come here to fuck, do drugs, shoot guns and get trashed - that's the basic premise of it.

 

 

 

_-"Oh-oh! A man after my own heart, uh - didn't catch your name?"-_

 

 

 

Hoyt's wry, speculative expression lit up there and then.  
Leading up him to press his palms together like a child at Christmas.  
At this point, the very act of poker was forgotten and they weren't even focused on playing.  
Huntley was doing exactly what he wanted - talking to the man and finding out what he could.  
First hand, right from the source - even mediocre, measly information was of use.  
Rome wasn't built in a day and it certainly wouldn't collapse in a day.  
Huntley would take whatever he goddamn could at this very point.  
With Sam already on the inside as a Privateer in the making.  
Regular communication was difficult - dangerous even.  
Could've led to the mission being compromised.  
Sabotaged - could've led to losses.  
And Willis wasn't about to have that.

 

 

 

So, far - discovering one of two important things:  
Hoyt Volker seemed secretive, but was actually fairly talkative when engaged.  
And someone who's engagable was someone you could get close to.  
Getting close to someone means they could be taken out.

 

 

 

_-"Lewis A. Tillyhun."-_

 

 

 

 

Huntley answered, shooting down a mouthful of liquor, the name given actually an anagram of his real one - his own concoction - the A. funnily enough standing for America - an inside joke he had with himself, but obviously, if pressed as to what his middle name was he'd lie and say something stupid, like Antony or Ambrose - in the meantime, squeezing the hand of the young, green-eyed man with sun-kissed skin and curly hair presented as his escort and pretending he was into it - by the end of the evening they would probably have to retire to one of the back-rooms of the bar and just stay there long enough to have people presume they at least reached third base or have him pay off the boy to say that they did. Or have him somehow eliminated before he could open his mouth and put him in a bad position. Either ways, people here talk. They talk a lot. Especially hookers. They liked to know the nitty-gritty for the sheer sake of it. Size. Virility. Techniques. How much you tipped. Does your breath smell. Do you snore. How fast you came. Do you have funny looking testicles. How much money you carry in your wallet. What country you're form. What's the best way to rob you. Everything. He guesses it's just a thing that entertained them. Also, having a network of spies who saw you with your pants down is a good investment too.

 

 

Some James Bondian, Hollywood-noir, detective novel shit right there - Willis felt like Hercule Poirot.

 

 

 

_-"Well, Lewis, here's my card if you ever need me and if you've still got a taste for dark, green-eyed men after this, you know where to find me. I like to keep my guests happy."-_

 

 

Hoyt got up, bending towards him slightly.  
His silent guards around him almost instantaneously.  
Staring him down with a curtain of cigar smoke sizzling from his lips.  
Sliding him what seemed like a simple, discreet jet black plastic swipe - classy.  
Practically purring his words and Huntley wasn't certain if it was a veiled treat or a sexual offer.  
It could be either - he could be hinting at the fact that if he wants trouble, he knows where he should look for it.  
Or, he could be hinting that if he's down to fuck, now he's got a name, number and address to work with.  
Either ways, Lewis would've been very much on a fence as to what to think, playing with the idea.  
But, Willis Motherfucking Huntley would pretty much down a bottle of whiskey at this point.  
The patrons looking just as alarmed as they probably seemed when Hoyt turned to leave.  
Coming out like some rare nocturnal creature and disappearing just as quickly.  
Of course, without paying the bill and giving him a goodbye nod at the door.  
A full deck containing a king, a queen, a J, an ace, and a club nine.  
Abandoned and spread out on the table with a half-finished glass.

 

 

 

 

The sheer tension in the bar was only semi-lifted despite of being thick enough to cut with a butcher knife.

 

 

 

A winning high card straight out the gate - impressive - Hoyt's victory, without dispute.  
Leaving him to wonder - was he unto him - did he know - did he care?  
Did it really even matter if he knew - would it change anything?  
Did Hoyt have the morbid need to play with his would-be-infiltrators?  
Did it amuse him, in some weird way - was it all just a big, fat game to him?  
A self-made theater where he's pulling all the puppet-strings and having a private joke?  
Teasing his own betrayers, spies, conspirators because it was, in a way, funny to do so to him?  
He was no bloody physiologist, for fuck's sake - he was just stranded with paying for these damn drinks.  
Whatever the case may be, Willis was left with the burden of dealing with this kid he was stranded with in the meantime too.  
So doing what any hotblooded male on this island would, for the sake of even trying to be secretive, he spoke up, loud for the gossipers to hear:

 

 

 

The Guantanamera playing on the radio alongside a healthy dose of static, Willis, propped himself on one elbow.

 

 

 

_-"So, wanna fuck then?"-_

 

 

 

Jesus, just like Hoyt himself, was this a strange job he choose - should've been a doctor or something, like his old folks always wanted.


End file.
